Poetic Forms

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Poetic Forms
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Introduction

• Poetry is written in closed or open form.
• Closed form poetry is characterized by patterns
  verse, rhyme, meter and/or syllable. The content
  fits into the form.
• Open form poetry is characterized by the lack of
  pattern. The content creates the form.

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Open Form Poetry

• Content determines the form of the poem.
• Punctuation, line breaks, and white spaces become
  very important in open form poetry.
• Free verse
• Concrete poems
• Shaped poems

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Free Verse

• Cavalry Crossing a Ford
• A line in long array where they wind betwixt
  green islands,
• They take a serpentine course, their arms flash
  in the sun -- hark to the musical clank
• Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing
  horses loitering stop to drink,
• Behold the the brown-faced men, each group, each
  person a picture, the negligent rest on the
  saddles.
• Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just
  entering the ford --while,
• Scarlet and blue and snowy white,
• The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.
• Walt Whitman, 1865

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Concrete Poems

• I lt')))gtlting.
• Billy Eckles

• Words create picture
• More a visual than a literary form
• Related to Pop Art

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Lee Gately
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Roger McGough
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LEO PEÑA
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Shaped Poems

• Create a picture or visual pattern
• Content is more important than shape
• Content follows general grammatical rules
• Shape complements content of poem

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Easter Wingsby George Herbert

• Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and
  store,Though foolishly he lost the
  same,Decaying more and more,Till he becameMost
  pooreWith TheeO let me rise,As larks,
  harmoniously,And sing this day Thy
  victoriesThen shall the fall further the flight
  in me.My tender age in sorrow did beginneAnd
  still with sicknesses and shameThou didst so
  punish sinne,That I becameMost thinne.With
  TheeLet me combine,And feel this day Thy
  victorieFor, if I imp my wing on
  Thine,Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

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Dusk
Above the
water hang the
loud
flies
Here
O so
gray
then
What A pale
signal will appear
When Soon before its shadow
fades Where
Here in this pool of opened eye
In us No Upon us
As at the very edges
of where we take shape in the dark air
this object
bares its image awakening
ripples of recognition that
will
brush darkness up into light even after this
bird this hour both drift by atop the perfect sad
instant now
already passing out of sight
toward yet-untroubled
reflection
this image bears its object darkening
into memorial shades
Scattered bits of
light No of water Or something
across water
Breaking up No Being regathered
soon
Yet by then a swan will have
gone
Yes out of mind into what
vast
pale
hush
of a
place
past
sudden dark as
if a swan
sang
Swan and Shadow John Hollander
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Closed Form Poems

• Recognizable patterns
• Patterns can be determined by
• Stanza length
• Metrical pattern (ex iambic pentameter)
• Rhyme scheme
• Syllable count

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Haiku

• Japanese
• Syllabic poetry
• 17 syllables
• 1st line 5 syllables
• 2nd line -- 7 syllables
• 3rd line -- 5 syllables
• Seasonal reference
• Implied identification of perceiver (poet) with
  perceived (subject)

• Silent and still then
• Even sinking into rocks,
• The cicadas screech
• Basho
• Sleepless at Crown Point
• All night this headland
• Lunges into the rumpling
• Capework of the wind
• Richard Wilbur

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Meter

• Patterns of stressed and unstressed syllables
• The basic unit of meter is a foot.
• Most common feet in English poetry
• Iamb ? /
• Trochee / ?
• Anapest ? ? /
• Dactyl / ? ?
• Spondee / /
• Pyrrhic ? ?

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Metrical Lines

• One foot monometer
• Two feet dimeter
• Three feet trimeter
• Four feet tetrameter
• Five feet pentameter
• Six feet hexameter
• Seven feet heptameter
• Eight feet octameter

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Stanzas

• 2 line stanzas couplets
• 3 line stanzas
• tercets
• triplets aaa bbb ccc ddd
• terza rima aba bcb cdc ded
• 4 line stanzas quatrains
• 5 line stanzas quintets
• 6 line stanzas sestets
• 7 line stanzas septets
• 8 line stanzas octaves

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COUPLETS

• The Red Wheelbarrow
• so much depends
• upon
• a red wheel
• barrow
• glazed with rain
• water
• beside the white
• chickens
• William Carlos Williams

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Limerick

• Gervaise
• There WAS a young BELLE of old NATCHez
• Whose GARments were ALways in PATCHez
• When COMment aROSE
• On the STATE of her CLOTHES
• She DRAWLED, When Ah ITCHez, Ah SCRATCHez!
• Ogden Nash
• There WAS a young WOman named PLUNnery
• Who reJOICED in the PRACtice of GUNnery
• Till one DAY unobSERvant
• She BLEW up a SERvant
• And was FORCED to reTIRE to a NUNnery.
• Edward Gorey

• 5 line nonsense poem
• First line ends in proper name of place or person
• Rhyme aabba
• Meter
• 1st, 2nd and 5th lines have 3 stressed beats
• 3rd and 4th lines have 2 stressed beats

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Ballad

• English
• Narrative
• 4 line stanzas
• Meter Common Meter
• iambic tetrameter (4-stress lines) alternating
  with
• iambic trimeter (3 stress lines)
• Rhyme
• abab or
• abcb
• Refrains exact or incremental repetition

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Types of Ballads

• Traditional
• Anonymous
• Folk
• Broadside
• Propaganda
• Social Protest
• Literary
• Romantic poets

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Ballad Conventions

• Conversational language -- dialect
• Dialogue
• Traditional motifs
• Problematic love affairs
• Supernatural seducers
• Death
• Raids and battles
• Murders
• Hauntings
• Shipwrecks
• Political protest
• Comical situations

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Traditional BalladSir Patrick Spence
The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud
lauch lauched he The next line that Sir Patrick
red, The teir blinded his ee. O wha is this
has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To
send me out this time o the yeir, To sail upon
the se!
THE king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the
blude-reid wine O whar will I get guid sailor,
To sail this schip of mine? Up and spak an
eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne Sir
Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails
upon the se. The king has written a braid
letter, And signd it wi his hand, And sent it
to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand.

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Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid
schip sails the morne O say na sae, my master
deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. Late late
yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone
in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will cum to harme. O our Scots nables
wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild
schoone Bot lang owre a the play wer playd,
Their hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans
into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick
Spence Cum sailing to the land O lang, lang may
the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their
hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For
theyll se thame na mair. Haf owre, haf owre to
Aberdour, Its fiftie fadom deip, And thair
lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords
at his feit.
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BROADSIDE BALLADDudley Randall Ballad of
Birmingham (1969) (On the bombing of a church
in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)
 "Mother dear, may I go downtown        
Instead of out to play, And march the streets
of Birmingham                   In a Freedom
March today?" "No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and
hoses, guns and jails Aren't good for a little
child." "But, mother, I won't be alone. Other
children will go with me, And march the streets
of Birmingham To make our country free."      
                                       No,
baby, no you may not go,For I fear those guns
will fire. But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white
gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes
on her feet. The mother smiled to know that her
child Was in the sacred place, But that smile
was the last smile To come upon her face. For
when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet
and wild. She raced through the streets of
Birmingham Calling for her child. She clawed
through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out
a shoe. "O, here's the shoe my baby wore, But,
baby, where are you?"
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Literary BalladSir Walter Scott, Proud Maisie

• PROUD Maisie is in the wood,   
• Walking so early 
• Sweet Robin sits on the bush,   
• Singing so rarely.  
• 'Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
• When shall I marry me?
• 'When six braw gentlemen   
• Kirkward shall carry ye.'

• 'Who makes the bridal bed,
•   Birdie, say truly?'
• 'The grey-headed sexton
•   That delves the grave duly.
•  
• 'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
•  Shall light thee steady
• The owl from the steeple singWelcome Proud Lady.

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Sonnet

• Italian origin
• Lyric
• 14 lines
• Iambic pentameter

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SONNETS

• Italian or Petrarchan
• Stanzas
• Octave -- presents problem
• Sestet -- resolution or meditation upon problem
• Rhyme
• Octave -- abbaabba
• Sestet -- cdecde or cdccdc or cddcdd or variation

• English or Shakespearean
• Stanzas
• 3 Quatrains -- present similar images
• Heroic Couplet -- pardoxical resolution
• Rhyme
• Quatrains --
• abab
• cdcd
• efef
• Couplet --gg

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Sonnet 90 by Francesco Petrarch She used to let
her golden hair fly freeFor the wind to toy and
tangle and molestHer eyes were brighter than
the radiant west.(Seldom they shine so now.) I
used to seePity look out of those deep eyes on
me.("It was false pity," you would now
protest.)I had love's tinder heaped within my
breastWhat wonder that the flame burned
furiously?She did not walk in any mortal
way,But with angelic progress when she
spoke,Unearthly voices sang in unison.She
seemed divine among the dreary folkOf earth. You
say she is not so today?Well, though the bow's
unbent, the wound bleeds on.
Translated by Maurice Bishop
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 XVIII by William Shakespeare Shall I compare
thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and
more temperateRough winds do shake the darling
buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too
short a dateSometime too hot the eye of heaven
shines,And often is his gold complexion
dimmed,And every fair from fair sometime
declines,By chance, or nature's changing course
untrimmedBut thy eternal summer shall not
fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou
ow'st,Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his
shade,When in eternal lines to time thou
grow'st,So long as men can breathe, or eyes can
see,So long lives this, and this gives life to
thee.
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Villanelle

• French origin
• Originated with round dance
• Stanzas and Rhyme
• 5 tercets aba aba aba aba aba
• 1 quatrain abaa
• Line Repetition
• 1, 6, 12, 18
• 3, 9, 15, 19

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Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath
I shut my eyes and all the world drops deadI
lift my lids and all is born again.(I think I
made you up inside my head.)The stars go
waltzing out in blue and red,And arbitrary
darkness gallops inI shut my eyes and all the
world drops dead.I dreamed that you bewitched
me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me
quite insane.(I think I made you up inside my
head.)God topples from the sky, hell's fires
fadeExit seraphim and Satan's menI shut my
eyes and all the world drops dead.I fancied
you'd return the way you said.But I grow old and
I forget your name.(I think I made you up inside
my head.)I should have loved a thunderbird
insteadAt least when spring comes they roar
back again.I shut my eyes and all the world
drops dead.(I think I made you up inside my
head.)
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Sestina

• French origin
• Stanzas
• 6 sestets
• 1 tercet an envoi
• Repetition and linking of talons
• a/b/c/d/e/f
• f/a/e/b/d/c
• c/f/d/a/b/e
• e/c/b/f/a/d
• d/e/a/c/f/b
• b/d/f/e/c/a
• ba/dc/fe
• Atmosphere ranges from cozy to claustrophobic

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"Sestina d'Inverno" by Anthony Hecht
Was blessed heaven once, more than an island The
grand, utopian dream of a noble mind.In that
kind climate the mere thought of snow Was but a
wedding cake the youthful natives,Unable to
conceive of Rochester,Made love, and were
acrobatic in the making. Dream as we may, there
is far more to making Do than some wistful
reverie of an island,Especially now when hope
lies with the Rochester Gas and Electric Co.,
which doesn't mind Such profitable weather,
while the natives Sink, like Pompeians, under a
world of snow. The one thing indisputable here
is snow,The single verity of heaven's
making,Deeply indifferent to the dreams of the
natives,And the torn hoarding-posters of some
island.Under our igloo skies the frozen mind
Holds to one truth it is grey, and called
Rochester. No island fantasy survives
Rochester,Where to the natives destiny is snow
That is neither to our mind nor of our making.
Here in this bleak city of Rochester,Where there
are twenty-seven words for "snow,"Not all of
them polite, the wayward mindBasks in some
Yucatan of its own making,Some coppery, sleek
lagoon, or cinnamon islandAlive with lemon tints
and burnished natives, And O that we were
there. But here the natives Of this grey,
sunless city of Rochester Have sown whole mines
of salt about their land (Bare ruined Carthage
that it is) while snow Comes down as if The
Flood were in the making.Yet on that ocean
Marvell called the mind An ark sets forth which
is itself the mind,Bound for some pungent green,
some shore whose
natives
Blend coriander, cayenne, mint in makingRoasts
that would gladden the Earl of Rochester With
sinfulness, and melt a polar snow.It might be
well to remember that an island
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Nani by Alberto Rios
I watch the mama warming more tortillas for me. 
I watch her fingers in the flame for me. Near
her mouth, I see a wrinkle speak of a man whose
body serves the ants like she serves me, then
more words from more wrinkles about children,
words about this and that, flowing more easily
from these other mouths.  Each serves as a
tremendous string around her, holding her
together.  They speak nani was this and that to
me and I wonder just how much of me will die
with her, what were the words I could have been,
was.  Her insides speak through a hundred
wrinkles, now, more than she can bear, steel
around her, shouting, then, What is this thing
she serves? She asks me if I want more. I own
no words to stop her. Even before I speak, she
serves.
Sitting at her table, she serves the sopa de
arroz to me instinctively, and I watch her, the
absolute mama, and eat words I might have had to
say more out of embarrassment.  To speak,
now-foreign words I used to speak, too, dribble
down her mouth as she serves me albondigas.  No
more than a third are easy to me. By the stove
she does something with words and looks at me
only with her back.  I am full.  I tell her I
taste the mint, and watch her speak smiles at
the stove.  All my words make her smile.  Nani
never serves herself, she only watches me with
her skin, her hair.  I ask for more.